


Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

by Cerberusia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:38:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles never did return that bloody shirt. And now he's never going to. (Or, Stiles jerks off while wearing Derek's shirt, pretending that he is Derek).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

> For my Kink Bingo _roleplay_ square. Set early S2 (i.e. we know there's a giant lizard on the loose, but the pool scene hasn't happened yet).

So what _is_ the etiquette for returning clothes to older, possibly-dangerous not-friends anyway? Like, Stiles has shared clothes with Scott before a few times - comes with living pretty much in each others' pockets, seriously, Mrs. McCall could probably claim him as a dependent for tax purposes - and it's been totally un-awkward. Just return the item(s) clean and kinda-folded with a 'Here dude, your shirt/pants/socks/belt' and receive a 'Oh, thanks' in return. Simple.

But, as Stiles has got to know very well over these past few weeks, _nothing_ involving Derek Hale is ever simple if he can possibly make it complicated. And even if he can't, Derek will probably _invent_ something to make it more difficult and convoluted: dude has a problem with things being low-pressure.

Now, this is where a normal person would say 'screw it' and throw the shirt in the wash with the rest of the laundry and seek to return it as soon as possible. However, since 'normal' is something which Stiles is not, never has been and almost certainly never will be even with the Adderall, the shirt stays at the back of the drawer, bloodstain intact, largely forgotten. Until a couple of months later, when he's digging through the drawer to find another shirt entirely: he finds it at the back, and pulls it out with a cry of triumph - and the bloody shirt comes with it.

This is his second chance to return it - but ugh, it'd look weird returning it now (ignoring the fact that he's kept one or two of Scott's shirts for much longer and in fact may still have some lurking around the place that his mind has erroneously labelled as his), so he lays it on the end of his bed and stares at it for a few minutes. He can't really put it back in the drawer to get dried blood on his other shirts, and he certainly can't pass it off as his own - he vividly remembers the rigmarole of finding a shirt of his to fit Derek. Just looking at it displayed on his bed, he can tell it'd be way too big.

Hey, how big would it be? It's kinda weird, putting on Derek's shirt without his permission or even knowledge, but Derek's worn a lot of Stiles' shirts, albeit only briefly, so Stiles can't bring himself to feel _too_ guilty.

The shirt is, as predicted, way too big, the hem falling past his thighs and the sleeves past his wrist. He looks like he's wearing his older brother's clothes - or his boyfriend's.

Arousal kindles in his belly. Stiles takes a slow breath. He'll have to launder the shit out this shirt to keep Derek from smelling what he's been up to - but then he's not even planning to give it back, so who cares? Derek obviously doesn't, since he hasn't bothered to ask for it back. Probably too busy with that weird lizard-thing, whatever the hell that even is and okay, Stiles isn't going to think about humanoid lizards because that's a pretty good way to kill his boner. Nope, now is the time to think about how big the shirt is on him, but how it'd been kinda tight on Derek. Derek wears tight shirts kind of a lot, actually, which probably means that either he's hulked out in the past few years (definitely possible) or it's a vanity thing (unlikely but amusing).

Then again, if Stiles had that kind of musculature, he might go for tight shirts too. God, what must it be like, to be built like that? To know that you could break someone's neck with your bare hands or a kick - your body, a weapon?

How would Derek jerk off? Hard, Stiles thinks, and fast - an act of necessity rather than pleasure. He palms his own cock through his jeans, closes his eyes. Imagines for a moment that he _is_ Derek, smelling himself on this bloody shirt, older and stronger and male. Stiles thought he'd been in too many rancid locker rooms to find the smell of sweaty men even remotely attractive, but the shirt smells just right, even comforting. And, you know, sexy, because it smells like _Derek_.

But no, he's pretending to be Derek right now, and Derek probably doesn't spend much time comtemplating how sexy he smells. Or maybe he does? Questions for another time, never to be speculated upon to another living soul. So Stiles opens his eyes so he can get on the bed, sitting up against the pillows, before closing his eyes again and imagining being _bigger_. Not much taller, but much broader. Stronger.

He opens his zip to take his cock in his hand and pretends that it's not his cock, not his hand. He knows how to get himself off - but he's not himself right now, he's Derek, and he needs to do this accordingly.

Eyes tight shut, Derek pumps his cock roughly. He isn't thinking of anything, or is trying not to - just focusses on the hot, tight feeling in his belly, sparks starting in his cock and travelling up his spine. He makes small, jerky thrusts with his hips as he gets into it, feeling the calluses on his big, capable hands. He doesn't moan, doesn't make any sound, but his breathing hitches when he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock on every upstroke. He speeds up as orgasm comes closer, rocking harder into his fist. He's biting his lip and breathing harshly through his nose, all sound throttled down to a quiet grunt as he finally comes over his hand and belly.

And, Stiles realises as he opens his eyes, the shirt. Oops. _Definitely_ laundering the shit out of this. Y'know, when he can stand up again. His legs feel pretty wobbly. He leans to one side to get tissues and ends up overbalancing - okay, fine, comfier to clean up on his side anyway.

By the time he's throwing the tissues in the trash (and actually getting them in, oh yes), he's come to two resolutions. One, he's not giving the shirt back, and two - he needs a leather jacket.


End file.
